"Mercedes Lackey - Satanic, Versus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lackey Mercedes)

Satanic, Versus . . .


"Mrs. Peel," intoned a suave, urbane tenor voice from the hotel doorway behind
Di Tregarde, "We're needed."

The accent was faintly French rather than English, but the inflection was
dead-on.

Di didn't bother to look in the mirror, although she knew there would be a
reflection there. Andre LeBrel might be a 200-year-old vampire, but he cast a
perfectly good reflection. She was too busy trying to get her false eyelashes
to stick.

"In a minute, lover. The glue won't hold. I can't understand itтАФI bought the
stuff last year for that unicorn costume and it was fine thenтАФ"

"Allow me." A thin, graceful hand appeared over her shoulder, holding a tiny
tube of surgical adhesive. "I had the sinking feeling that you would forget.
This glue, cherie, it does not age well."

"Piffle. Figure a back-stage haunt would know that." She took the white
plastic tube from Andre, and proceeded to attach the pesky lashes properly.
This time they obliged by staying put. She finished her preparations with a
quick application of liner, and spun around to face her partner. "Here," she
said, posing, feeling more than a little smug about how well the black leather
jumpsuit fit, "How do I look?"

Andre cocked his bowler to the side and leaned on his umbrella. "Ravishing.
And I?" His dark eyes twinkled merrily. Although he looked a great deal more
like Timothy Dalton than Patrick Macnee, anyone seeing the two of them
together would have no doubt who he was supposed to be costumed as. Di was
very glad they had a "pair" costume, and blessed Andre's infatuation with old
TV shows.

And they're damned well going to see us together all the time, Di told herself
firmly. Why I ever agreed to this fiasco . . .

"You look altogether too good to make me feel comfortable," she told him,
snapping off the light over the mirror. "I hope you realize what you're
letting yourself in for. You're going to think you're a drumstick in a pool of
piranha."

Andre made a face as he followed her into the hotel room from the dressing
alcove. "Cherie, these are only romance writers. TheyтАФ"

"Are for the most part over-imaginative middle-aged hausfraus, married to guys
that are going thin on top and thick on the bottom, and you're likely going to
be one of a handful of males in the room. And the rest are going to be
middle-aged copies of their husbands, agents, or gay." She raised an eyebrow